


I Have Died Everyday

by AgentJoanneMills



Series: Blood of Rebirth [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Feelings, History, Reincarnation, Stargaryen, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6125377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has . . . existed for countless lifetimes. But her life, well, it has been lived only once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Died Everyday

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> This is part of the sorta promised universe expansion of vamp!Dany and reincarnated!Arya that wasn't really planned but happened anyway. So. :))

 

She sits by herself in a quaint little café in one of Oldtown’s less populous corners. Her purple eyes never fix their gaze on one point for too long as she notes (with not a little amount of sadness) how different this Oldtown is from her Oldtown, and yet, somehow, they are one and the same. She takes a sip of her afternoon tea and allows herself to remember this place from hundreds of years ago: strolling on the cobbled streets of the ancient city, enjoying the gentle breeze unique to the Reach; weaving her way amongst traders and hawkers and the common folk at the top of Whispering Sound; walking with Missandei along the waters of Honeywine, shielded by a canopy of huge southron trees, as her handmaiden told her stories from her native Naath.

With a sigh, she lets the memories wash over her.

 _Memories_.

That’s all they are.

And it seems that nothing can change that.

Not for the first time in her unnaturally long existence, Daena Velaryon accepts that no matter how powerful she is, she does not have control over everything.

And so she drains her cup of its content, pays her bill, and sets outside. The weather is pleasant, as it almost always is in the South, and Daena scowls at how the tranquil air directly contrasts with the tempest she feels within.

Her black coat—which is entirely inappropriate for southron climate, and is the same shade as her heart, if she had a functioning one, she muses darkly—is turned up at the collars, and her pale hands are buried deep into her pockets, and yet she can’t seem to feel warm. Of course, that might be because she’s not _alive_ to actually feel warm in the first place.

Yes. There’s that.

See, she’s not really one of the living. Not in any normal sense of the word.

She’s a murderer. A predator.

A bloodthirsty killing machine.

 

She’s a vampire.

She has been for many centuries, and she will be for many more.

She’s alive because other people are dead.

 

And more than the breeze playing with her now-brown hair, more than the seemingly permanent ice coating her chest—more like a blank cavity, for her heart is not beating and hasn’t been for a _very_ long time—more than the shudder that ripples through her veins, the one most painful reminder of how cold she is right now is the fact that she is completely alone.

Not for the first time in over a century, Daena Velaryon fully understands what that word means.

She desperately wishes she didn’t have to.

 

****

 

Daenerys Targaryen is used to waiting. She has, after all, a lifetime of experience doing just that.

She had waited for her brother to act like family, not like a mad monster, not like a replica of their father.

She had waited to be strong enough to be worthy of her name—her family’s name, a legacy of Valyria.

She had waited to reclaim what was hers by fire and blood.

 

Daenerys Targaryen has a lifetime of experience just waiting.

And the things she waited for . . . they did not come as soon as she had hoped.

Time, it seems, has always been against her.

 

This is pretty ironic, since time—well. Time is all she has, now.

And the single thing she is waiting for right now, the one person for whom she would have waited _forever_ , is someone who had been dead for eons.

 

They’ve spent a single lifetime. Just one. A lifetime filled with hardships and death and carnage, but a lifetime worth living, because of _her_.

A lifetime borne of bones, drenched in blood, tempered by dragon’s breath.

A lifetime of blades and poisons. Of traps made of thorns and gold.

 

It was a lifetime of hope and despair and victory and defeat and gain and loss and love and hate and . . .

 

. . . it was a lifetime she would have lived over and over and over again if only to spend it with _her_.

 _Her_. The She-Wolf. The Lion’s Bane. The Wolf Knight.

_Her_.

Daenerys doesn’t care how long it would take.

She will wait, and wait, and wait.

 

She would have given up thousands of years of existence if it meant she’d be reunited with her Wolf.

(She didn’t give up her throne in _their_ lifetime, and it was the worst mistake she’s ever made. How petty a throne is to her, now, and what an idiotic girl she once had been—to choose such frivolity over what her heart truly desired, desires, _will always desire_.

She has vowed to not ever repeat that mistake, for now she knows just how miserable the outcome could be. Can be.)

She would have given up anything, _everything_ , to once again be with Arya Stark.

( _Everything_.)

 

****

  
The last truly human contact she had was during a stormy night—and how poetic could it be, that a storm bore witness to her birth, and a storm bore witness to her death? She remembers the darkness that shrouded Dragonstone—her cradle and her casket—with the thunderclouds roiling on the inkiest canvas the sky had to offer. She can still feel the raindrops on her skin, bitter cold, as she stood on the edge of a precipice, her silver hair whipped back by the wind. She was looking at the waters, wishing to see even a silhouette of _her_ ship. But there was none.

Drogon was beside her, his wings outstretched to protect her from the downpour as much as he could. Viserion took to the sky, with Jon on his back, and Rhaegal was perched on one of the stronghold’s towers. Her children were all watching—looking for something just beyond their reach.

And then it happened.

Daenerys saw her ship, sailing defiantly against the sky’s wrath.

Drogon breathed fire then, and it illuminated the lithe and pale figure standing on the ship’s prow.

Daenerys breathed relief.

It took great effort to not try and command the sea itself to cooperate, to bring _her_ closer faster.

It was only when _she_ stood before her that the Queen allowed herself to relax.

Arya cocked her head then, to ask, _What are you doing, standing in the rain?_ She was smirking, that insolent grin Daenerys loved so much, and her shirt was splattered with the blood of their enemies.

 _You were gone too long_ , she answered. _I did not give you_ three _weeks for this mission_.

 _Your Grace_ , Arya said, _I apologize for making you wait. I have been . . . held up in Qarth. There were interesting developments in the House of the Undying, details of which I would gladly share tomorrow, when we meet with the Small Council._ Her gaze flicked upwards, meeting Drogon’s crimson stare. _Your child would also like you to head back inside. This storm won’t be good for your health._

 _I don’t get cold because of little things like storms, Arya,_ Daenerys said coolly. _I am called ‘Stormborn’ for a reason._

 _Point taken,_ Arya allowed, sounding fondly exasperated. _But we really should be heading back._ She pointed a thumb behind her. _Some of your Unsullied need to heal._

_Of course._

But Daenerys stepped forward, grabbing her Wolf by the back of her neck, fingers buried in short brown locks, and she pulled, and their lips met in a kiss slick with rain.

And then . . .

. . . everything changed.

 

****

 

Daena’s feet bring her to the Targaryen Reign section of Oldtown’s library. The pages all whisper about her ancestors and Daena feels safe here, protected by the ghosts of her extensive past. People to whom she owes her existence.

People to whom she owes fire and blood.

It’s a pretty secluded place, away from prying eyes; it’s practically the most private part of the university, since few scholars ever get interested in the lore of the Dragonlords. She feels a pang of sadness, so intense and acute, for her family’s heritage had been reduced to myths.

She shakes her head. No. She can’t go down that path again. At least not yet.

(The last time, she held out for two whole decades before falling back into that abyss of hopelessness. She’s still in the sixteenth year, now, and she refuses to break her record.)

She sits on her favourite corner and spreads her work. Books she had already perused are still there, and she opens them, creating for herself a nest of knowledge and reminders of stories she _had_ actually lived.

Her satchel is stuffed with journals and memo pads filled with notes on several aspects of Westerosi history; she has been slowly going over the manuscripts and accounts she has encountered over the eons, putting together a comprehensive timeline and maybe tracing her lineage at the same time.

It’s a work in progress, but she’s hopeful she’d be at least halfway done by the end of this term—and she’s not even sure which term it is anymore, really. She’s been going to universities for so long, the years all just kind of blend together.

The scent of old parchment and ancient wood permeate the air, thick with _what had beens_ and _what could haves_ , blanketing her in her peaceful reverie. Just the way she likes it. She loves reading and working here.

And then . . .

A different sort of scent makes her jolt upright.

It’s . . . familiar.

Excruciatingly so.

Maddeningly so.

She inhales, long and deep, closing her eyes to discern if . . .

Yes.

It is _that_ same smell.

Pine trees.

Snow.

And the scent of a _wolf_.

She opens her eyes, and she can feel her fangs extending, and there’s a low growl threatening to burst from her throat.

_No._

_She can’t be . . ._

And yet the scent stays, and there is no doubt in Daena’s mind that it was . . . _it is_ . . .

She focuses—she spent a lot of time learning to control her senses so that they do not overwhelm her—and she hears it. A faint heartbeat. Soothing. Calm.

_No._

_Oh gods. What have you for me, now? Haven’t you done enough?_

There are footsteps getting closer, and the scent is getting stronger. Daena clamps her jaws hard, and she thinks of wars and despair and _death death death_ to rein herself in.

She cannot lose control now.

She is old, and she has gone through hundreds of lifetimes.

She is old, and she is forever young.

An old entity trapped in this body— _Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Chainbreaker, Mother of Dragons and Tamer of Wolves_ —doomed to spend eternity alone.

She cannot lose control now—not after all she endured to learn.

No.

 

She stands up and uses her vampiric speed to clean up her place, and she gets her bag, and she _runs_.

 

But she allows herself to look. Just for a moment, hidden in the shadows . . .

A moment, to see if she’s right, and she’s not going insane, like she has feared she would.

A moment, and she _sees_.

She’s there.

 _She_ ’s there.

 _Gods_.

 _How_?

Arya Stark, in all her Northern glory.

Arya Stark—she of the unkempt short brown hair, of the Northern pallor, of the steel-grey eyes that cut through flesh as easily as any Valyrian sword.

Arya Stark.

 _How_?

Instead of the leather the Wolf Knight used to wear, she is dressed in a pair of dark jeans and black Converse sneakers.  

She has a silver direwolf ring on her left middle finger. And her plain black sweatshirt is folded to her elbows, revealing that a black dragon is wrapped around her left arm— _a tattoo_ —and the dragon’s face is on the back of her hand, right above the direwolf.

The sight makes Daena _ache_.

_Dragon and Wolf._

( _I will never stop loving you, Dany. In this life, and the next, and the next._ )

This is all too much.

( _I am yours, and you are mine._ )

 _How_?

Arya Stark . . . Arya Stark is dead.

( _When the Dragon calls, the Wolf has no choice but to answer. Follow. Serve._ )

Arya Stark has been dead for thousands of years.

( _I live for you, Dany. And I will die for you if needs be._ )

Is Daena—no, is _Daenerys_ truly going mad?

( _No one will harm you. Not while I’m alive._ )

But the smell . . . she cannot block it.

Blood runs true and wild in this . . . person’s veins.

She’s . . . she’s breathing, and she’s alive.

( _Do you believe in reincarnation?_ )

And Daena knows a minute more and her carefully wound restraint will snap.

Hunger stirs within, and she hasn’t felt _this_ in a long time—the insatiable need to take and get what she wants, the urge to pierce one’s skin with her fangs and _suck_.

 

She hasn’t felt the thirst since she learned to keep it under control eons ago, but now, it surges to the surface, and her throat is dry, and _she needs to go away_.

But she is transfixed.

 _How_?

( _If I were given another life, I swear I will find you. And when I do, I will love you. Again and again._

_Again and again._

_Always. Forever._ )

 

She wants to reach out—is she dreaming? No, not even her dreams are this vivid.

No dream can ever conjure up her scent. No.

Not even her subconscious would be so cruel as to subject her to this kind of torture.

At least, that’s what she thinks.

 

 _This person_ goes to the far shelf, right where Daena had been sitting seconds ago, and she gets a thick tome on Valyrian legends.

She sits, turns on her tablet, and opens the book. She reads and takes notes, and Daena watches.

 

Daena watches, and when _this person_ — _How can she be Arya Stark?_ —finally decides to leave, it’s nearing sunset.

And then she leaves, and Daena debates whether or not to follow, but her curiosity ( _her thirst_ ) wins out.

 

Just what in the names of the old gods and the new is happening?

Daena intends to find out—time is her infinite resource, and Arya Stark has returned from . . .

. . . the dead.

 

For the first time since her first life, Daenerys Targaryen has found the will to live.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have lotsa feelings. Sorry.  
> Lol. Should be writing like two article things for my job right now, but what can you do? I am doomed anyways, why not go all the way. :))


End file.
